A Deeper Darkness (21 page)

“Whoooooo, I ain’t telling you that, girlie. Nice try, though.”

Sam stared at him for a few moments. “I think you’ve got more than a few notes. I think you’re about to bust something wide open. Why play with us like this? I’m sure De…that Chevy could help. He could bring to bear the full might of the D.C. police on your clandestine investigation.”

Taranto laughed, a choking, chortling sound. “As if. Thing is, I’m not ready to go out wide yet. But you and your buddies started poking around, and suddenly my pan’s too hot and I gotta scramble some eggs instead of making the omelet. I just need the fire turned down a bit, so I can get some more info together.”

“I doubt I can do anything to help, but I’ll pass along your request.” Sam had a thought. If Taranto was pushing to find out the details of the story… “You didn’t happen to be anywhere near McLean in the past week, have you?”

“Time to go.” He stood briskly. Sam grabbed his arm.

“If you try walking out now I’ll announce who you are in front of this whole bar.”

He stopped. “You wouldn’t,” he whispered in horror.

“I most certainly would. I’ve got nothing to lose. Sit down.” She used her best get-to-work voice, one she learned as a resident, corralling med students, and used on the techs when they started screwing around.

It worked. He sat.

“Now. Tell me the truth. Did you break into the house? And leave the baseball cap on the bed?”

He started to hum, and look at the nails on his right hand. Okay. Plausible deniability. He wouldn’t tell her, but he wouldn’t stop her from guessing.

“Who went to the school?”

He just raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, that was Karen. She was the decoy. Get Susan to the school, so you can go in and check things out. What were you looking for?”

“You got a devious mind, ya know?”

“Yes. Too much time spent among people like you. What were you looking for?”

“Words.”

“The journal.”

He tapped his finger to his nose. Now that she’d caught on, he gave her more to work with.

“The missus she said she got in touch with Doc a few weeks back. Thought her questions might trigger his imagination. But the pages were already gone. Someone beat me to it.”

Donovan, you sly dog. You did tear them out yourself. So where did you hide them? You knew you were in trouble.
The note—“Do the Right Thing”—was… She stared across at Taranto. Manipulative little shit.

“Hey. You sent that note to Doc and Jackal, didn’t you? Trying to get them to give you information for your story. That’s low, man.”

“I… Yeah, I did. So what? They needed a push.”

“You pushed them, all right. Right into a grave. They’re dead because you pushed them so hard.”

Taranto had the good sense to look abashed. “That was never my intention. Those fuckers—’scuse my language—are the ones who did it. They’re to blame, not me. I’m just trying to figure out what in the world went down then that’s worth dying for now. And why the situation wasn’t mopped up over there, before they took it home.”

Sam wanted to know the answer to that, too. “Your actions, Mr. Taranto, are unforgivable. What do you expect me to do now?”

“You don’t take instruction well, so just keep them all occupied. You can tap dance, right?”

“Not for very long. As soon as we’re done here, I’m heading to see Mutant. I hope.”

“Good. Take this.” Taranto slid a folder under the table. She felt it knocking at her knees, took it in her hand. “Be careful with it. I’m calling
you
my insurance, now. They come for me, I tell them someone else has the info. They come for you, well, try not to give me up, okay?”

Sam nodded. She was dying to see what the folder contained.

“You go first. I’ll see you around, Scotch.”

She slid out of the booth and headed toward the door without a backward glance. She finally felt useful. She had earned a nickname, after all.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

McLean, Virginia
Susan Donovan

Susan hadn’t expected the outpouring of love she and the girls had received today. She knew they were going to be taken care of, of course. She’d done her share of funerals at Arlington and elsewhere, knew exactly what to expect. What surprised her was how strong she felt, considering she’d just put her beloved husband in the ground. It wouldn’t last, she knew.

But for today—she was just so proud of Eddie. She heard so many stories that he’d never shared: about lives he’d saved, the strategic thinking that protected his men time and again, the real truth about the picture of the camel he had in his office, which had made everyone at the service laugh. Eddie wasn’t the kind of man to brag on himself. Susan knew in theory how well respected he was, but hearing about his deeds and adventures and close calls from the men and women who’d served with him made her miss him even more, but in a different way. Perhaps it was having grown up in the military. Knowing he had touched so many helped cushion the blow the day could have thrown.

She’d gotten the girls to sleep at Eleanor’s and, with her mother-in-law’s blessing, sat in the backyard until the remaining guests had left.

She was exhausted. And she hadn’t had a minute to herself in two days. When Eleanor suggested Susan take a drive to clear her head, she jumped at the chance. She’d driven right back to the house, poured a glass of wine and stepped into Eddie’s office, where she felt his presence the strongest.

And there, in the darkened room, she started to say her final farewells. She allowed herself the tears she’d held back this afternoon to keep the girls in check. She sobbed looking at their wedding photos, until the last one in the album, where they were walking under the tunnel of sabers, and Eddie’s best man, Perry Fisher, had swatted her on the butt with the flat of his saber and said, “Welcome to the Army, ma’am.”

She relived the moment through the photo. She knew the brief spanking was coming; it was tradition. But King had smacked her a good one, and her flesh stung under her dress. She’d burst out laughing, and the camera caught her, turning to scold King, face lit up in glee, her mouth wide open. Eddie hadn’t realized she’d stopped and was a foot in front of her, holding her arm, so she looked like she was being pulled in two directions, the train of her gown flying up in the air as if a breeze had blown it from below.

It was a perfectly timed photo, the kind of spontaneous shot that made the unscripted moments of the day come to the fore. How Eddie had tripped getting down on his knee to pull the garter off her thigh. The band playing the wrong first dance song. Her father, sick but still kicking, leading a bunny hop. It had been a perfect wedding.

She didn’t want to say goodbye to that man, the one who loved her unconditionally, who sang to their babies, who fretted about his ties and brought home her favorite ice cream as a surprise. All of the little things that made their marriage tick.

Lightning flashed in the distance, briefly brightening the office. She realized she was sitting in the dark. She counted off until she heard the thunder. Not too close, not yet. She knew it was supposed to rain this evening. She was just glad it held off until they’d gotten the burial over with.

She wondered how Betty Croswell was doing tonight. After Hal’s murder, she’d taken the kids and gone south to her mother’s. She would be back next week for Hal’s inurnment. She’d sent Susan a beautiful email this morning, expressing her sorrow at missing the funeral, hoping Susan would understand. She asked if there was news about the shooting. Susan had written her back and shared what she knew, which was precious little.

Stop and start. Start and stop. Every time it felt like Detective Fletcher got some momentum on the case, things would screech to a halt.

Sam had ridden off with Fletcher earlier, escaping the throngs of people at Eleanor’s for the reception. She was working on Eddie’s case. She was trying to find his killer.

Susan wasn’t sure how she felt about Sam being privy to more information than she was.

That wasn’t true. She knew exactly how it made her feel. It sucked. Eddie was hers. They’d built a life together. Sam hadn’t waited breathlessly through every deployment, started at every ringing phone or chiming doorbell. Sam didn’t know what it was like to worry that your husband wasn’t coming home.

Check yourself, Susan. She lost her husband, too. And her kids. You can’t be angry with her. She’s just trying to help.

And face it. You feel helpless. That’s why you’re so angry with her.

Susan went to the kitchen, poured another glass of wine. The chardonnay bottle was empty now. She set it on the counter and went back to Eddie’s office.

What were they missing?

Something hugely important, that’s what. And she had no idea what that might be. Another flash of anger toward Sam—Susan couldn’t even decipher her own husband’s journal.

Susan started moving through the room, trying to look at things she may have neglected. She went through the pile of paper on his desk: bills. Just bills. She ran her fingers over his bookcase, remembering him sitting in the family room in the chair closest to the fire, reading.

She thought about how he’d run his hand up the back of her neck, under her hair, and let his palm rest there. How he’d use that leverage to pull her to him, settling his mouth on her with the intensity he brought to everything.

She would never feel that kiss again.

She collapsed in his chair. The tears flowed steadily as she said goodbye.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Washington, D.C.
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam left Old Ebbitt’s, crossed the street and walked toward the White House, then turned into Lafayette Square. It was strange not to have cars passing by. Pennsylvania Avenue had been turned into a walking mall several years before, a security measure probably long overdue. She crossed the park, pausing only once to glance over her shoulder at the luminous building that hosted the leader of the free world.

That symbol of freedom was the very thing Donovan and his friends were fighting for. So why did she feel an ominous chill looking at the building, beautifully lit against the darkened sky? Was it the shadow of a sniper on the roof, one of many who kept vigilant watch over the White House environs? Or the knowledge that Donovan had done the very same thing, securing points of importance or interest, trying to spread the message of freedom and democracy to an inhospitable place through force and cajoling? The pen was mightier than the sword, but it wasn’t mightier than an M16 wielded by a very capable operator. A sledgehammer to the process, perhaps, one that got the point across rather bluntly, but it was much quicker than diplomacy.

She felt eyes on her and sped up her pace. There were still homeless who slept in this park, though they’d be rousted and moved if they got in the way of sightseers. But this felt more aggressive, and she walked as fast as she could without looking obvious, the heels of her shoes tapping across the concrete. She heard another set of footfalls behind her, and glimpsed a shadow gaining on her position. The steps grew heavier, closer, and she broke into a run.

Taranto wasn’t kidding. The information he’d given her must have been inflammatory. She passed the Hay Adams Hotel at a sprint, saw the doormen giving her a look. She reached K Street and turned left abruptly, her heels skidding a little on the concrete sidewalk.

Fletcher and Hart were waiting, engine idling. She scrambled into the backseat of the unmarked and said, “Go. Someone’s following me.”

They didn’t move, just slid their weapons from their holsters and started checking the mirrors.

“Lay down,” Fletcher told her.

“Shit,” Sam said, sliding down in the backseat. “Do you see anything?”

“No one that looks suspicious. Hart, you got anything?”

Hart shook his head. “No. Nothing unusual. Just some folks out enjoying the night air. You sure you were followed?”

Sam thought about that shadow, growing closer, felt the chill move through her body again, and crouched lower in the seat.

“It certainly felt that way. When I sped up, so did he. The silhouette was big, definitely a man. That’s all I saw, though, before I took off. I’m afraid I may have panicked a bit.”

Fletcher reached over the seat and patted her arm.

“That’s all right. We knew the risk we were taking sending you in to talk to Taranto instead of one of us. Didn’t think you’d be followed, though. That makes it kind of interesting, don’t you think?”

Hart said, “Check your six.”

Sam saw the shadow from Fletcher’s head move slightly. She realized she was holding her breath.

“Big guy, moving north?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope. He just met some chick coming up from the Metro. They’re heading out arm in arm.”

Fletcher looked over the seat at Sam, who was still crouched down out of sight, and smiled.

She shot him the bird and he laughed, a sound she was surprised to hear was incredibly joyous. She didn’t see that they were in a position to celebrate, not just yet.

“Let’s loop back down to the restaurant, though I’m sure Taranto managed to get himself out of there just fine. You certainly had him on edge. I may have to hire you as a full-time stool pigeon.
Scotch
.” Fletcher steered the car away from the curb, doing a wide U-turn. Sam felt her breath begin to ease.

“Can I sit up?”

“Give it a ten count, so we’re clear of the park, then yeah. Go for it. You can get that mike off, too.”

Sam waited a few moments, then raised herself off the seats and smoothed back her hair. She felt foolish for panicking. The footsteps and shadow were most likely just another reveler cutting through the park on his way to the Metro stop.

There was a reason she worked with the dead, under the cold gleam of fluorescent lights, a sharpened scalpel and a set of Henckels knives her only weapons. Wait until she told Taylor this story. Her best friend would laugh her out of the room.

Fletcher glanced back at her. “So Taranto gave you something, outside of the golden nuggets we heard? Great job getting him to fall for that, by the way. You really did well.”

Sam shook the folder. “Thank you.”

“Welcome. And careful, be sure you turn the mike off before you untape it. Don’t break it. They’ll have my head.”

She untaped the transmitter and battery pack from the small of her back, and the mike from between her breasts. The transmitter wasn’t bigger than a deck of cards. Very discreet.

That was a close one. She imagined the audio would have a clear recording of her heartbeat going absolutely wild at the beginning there, when she played dumb. She finished and got her shirt wrestled back down, caught Fletcher eyeing her in the rearview.

“Enjoy the show?”

“I did.”

She shook her head. “File doesn’t feel too thick. Gino is scared, though. You heard the end, right? He was the one who broke into Donovan’s house. He’s been working with Perry Fisher’s wife, Karen. He has her hidden away until he thinks things are safe.”

Fletcher asked, “So what’s in the folder?”

“Let’s see. He said I was the insurance policy, so it must be something inflammatory.” Sam flipped open the folder, pushed the overhead light above her right shoulder. The pages inside were blank, but something thin fell out into her lap. A CD in a clear sleeve.

“There’s a disc in here.” She flipped it to and fro. “No writing on it. We need to get to a computer and take a look, see what this is.”

“Hart’s laptop is in the trunk. Just hang on a second while I pull over.”

Fletcher steered the car to the curb, and Hart hopped out before the car had come to a complete stop.

Fletcher turned to Sam. “So whaddaya say we—”

Sam heard the strangest noise. A dull thunk. The car moved slightly.

“Did you hear that?” she said, just as Fletcher’s head swiveled and he screamed, “Get down!” His door flew open and he dived sideways from the car. She saw him land on the sidewalk, roll and start firing behind them, his weapon discharging again and again. She could hear him shouting, calling for Hart, and she huddled in the backseat, her heart beating a mile a minute, praying. There was a sudden burst of fire behind them, what sounded like an automatic weapon, and the car shook from the volley. She couldn’t be safe in here. And they couldn’t be safe out there.

Sam started to move, to where she didn’t know, and heard Fletcher shouting, “Radio, radio—Sam, get on the radio. We need backup!”

She slithered over the front seat and, lying flat against the leather, grabbed for the radio mounted on the dash.

“We need help!” she yelled. She didn’t know the codes, all the cop speak, so she went for logic instead. “Detectives Fletcher and Hart and Dr. Samantha Owens. We are on K Street, three blocks south of Lafayette Park, under fire— I repeat, we are taking fire. Someone is shooting at us, and the detectives are returning fire. Please send someone.”

Sam unkeyed the mike, heard a torrent of words and static. A woman’s voice said, “Repeat, repeat,” and Sam shouted all the information again, looking over her shoulder. The shooting had stopped, but that didn’t mean the danger was over. She saw Fletcher run to the passenger’s side of the car. He came to the passenger window and yelled, “Ambulance,” through the glass. He had blood on his shirt, she didn’t know from whom, him or Hart.
Oh, my God. One of them had been shot.

Sadly, that call was one she knew how to make. She keyed the mike again. “Officer down. We need an ambulance sent to the shooting on K Street. I repeat, officer down.”

She dropped the radio and flew out of the car. Fletcher was at the back bumper, kneeling over Hart, who wasn’t moving.

The fear left her immediately. Finally, something she could do to help. Sam pushed Fletcher away from Hart’s body. “Let me see him. Where’s he hit?”

“I don’t know,” Fletcher yelled. “He has on a vest, so the blood’s coming from somewhere else.”

She dropped to her knees, pulled Fletcher away from his partner. Hart was canted to the side facing her, like he’d taken the shot upright, then slid down the car. There was blood everywhere.

“Fletch, take a breath. Get me your Maglite.” She started running her hands over Hart’s body, feeling for an entrance wound.

Fletcher grabbed his Mag from the front seat, then scrambled back around the car and shone the beam on his partner, waving it frantically up and down his body.

Sam pointed at Hart’s head, and spoke as calmly as she could. “Fletch. Slow. Start here, at the top.”

The wound was in the base of Hart’s throat, an inch above the notch where the bulletproof vest cradled his collarbones and an inch to the right. Sirens sounded, drawing closer. But there was so much blood… She didn’t think there was time. He wasn’t breathing, and his pulse faded out under her fingertips. His airway was constricted from the bullet’s explosion. She didn’t think it had severed his windpipe, just that the trauma was causing swelling and blood was filling the field.

Regardless, they had to get him started again.

Sam laid Hart down, tilted his head back and gave him three quick breaths, happy to see his chest rise from her blows. She started chest compressions. “Do you have a defibrillator in the car?”

“Yeah.” Fletcher was white as a ghost. He didn’t have to be asked twice, he ran to the trunk and grabbed the portable unit. Fletcher had calmed, his training taking over, and as Sam lifted her hands off his partner’s chest, he unstrapped Hart’s vest. It only took a moment, then they both ripped at his shirt. Fletcher handed Sam the unit and she got it going, attaching the leads while it charged. She bent and gave him three more quick breaths, then two long ones.

“It’s ready. Clear,” Fletcher said, and hit the button.

A shock wave of electricity coursed through Hart’s body, making his heart jump in time. Sam put her fingers on his carotid. There was a single pulse, then it stopped.

“Again,” she said, hitting the button herself this time. The unit whined as it charged and Sam felt the moments slipping away. Jesus, this was why she didn’t work on live people, she was afraid to lose them… .
Breathe, you dummy, breathe.

“Ready. Clear.”

Fletcher hit the button and Hart’s body rose, his back arched. When it settled, Sam sat with her eyes closed, willing his heart to start. It did. She felt the pulse skip under her fingers, and then the paramedics were there. She stepped back and let them work. They slapped a mask on him and hyperventilated his lungs. When they stopped Hart’s chest rose of its own accord.

She stepped back and directly into Fletcher, who clutched on to her. “It worked?” he whispered.

“Yes. For now,” she answered.

“Thank you.”

She turned away from Hart, looked up at Fletcher. “What the hell?”

Fletcher shook his head, pointed at the car. They’d been hit at least six times, with Hart taking a shot, as well.

“If we hadn’t stopped…”

“They were behind us. He, I think, I only saw one. If we hadn’t stopped, they might have hit all of us, driven right up beside us and shot… Fuck.”

Fletcher weaved for a second, then sat down abruptly in the street crossed-legged.

Sam kneeled next to him. “Are you hit?”

“Yeah, I think so. No. I don’t know.”

“Where does it hurt?”

He pointed to his left arm. Sam thought that blood was Hart’s. She lifted Fletcher’s left hand gently, saw the tear in the fabric just above his elbow. He was wearing a white button-down—it was soaked nearly black in this spot.

“Hang tight, I’ve got to cut your sleeve off.”

He nodded and she went to the paramedics, who were sitting back on their heels over Hart, looking quite satisfied with themselves.

“He gonna be okay?” she asked.

A skinny guy with a flattop turned to her and nodded. “Yeah. You did good, getting him back in sinus. Where’d you learn that?”

“Georgetown Med. His partner’s hit, too. Can I borrow you?”

“Sure, Doc. Lead the way.”

She took him back to Fletcher. He was talking blankly to a large African-American man with a holster on his hip. As she drew closer she realized he was listening, not talking.

“The fuck you doing, Fletch? Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were gonna get shot tonight?”

“I’m shot?”

“He’s in shock,” Sam said to the man, rather unnecessarily. The paramedic excused himself and barreled in between the two of them, dropping to his knees and tearing Fletcher’s sleeve open. The wound was raw, but didn’t look life-threatening.

Sam turned to the newest addition to the scene. “And you are?”